Sherlock's Skull
by MavisK
Summary: (BBC) Sherlock and John are in need of a good writer and a friend of the press. Viona Crane visits their flat, and finds herself spun into a mystery of murder, the royal family and some beautiful romance. (I do not own Sherlock, BBC, or any characters/locations portrayed in this story)
1. Chapter 1

"Viona Crane?" A fat man with a balding head stuck his pudgy face into the corridor. I stood, my hands sweaty and walked into his office. It smelled like lots of ink and paper and was filled with fake plants. I took a seat in the hard wooden chair in front of his desk. I smoothed out my skirt as he sat down, my hands shaking with nerves.

"Viona Crane…" he mumbled, closing tabs on his computer. "Crane is French for Skull isn't it?"

"Yes sir," I said, "My mother chose it."

"She chose your last name?"

"She chose her own too," I said, a little defensively.

"Care to elaborate?"

"She didn't know my father's last name," I answered, "Or her real last name. She was an orphan." I could feel my cheeks heating up.

"Right," he said, his eyebrows raised. "Well, what makes you think you're qualified for this job?"

"I love to write," I said, "I have taken sixteen writing workshops in my life and I took a writing class in high school."

"That's it?"

I cleared my throat. "I was reviewed in the paper this May."

"May I see the review?"

"Of course," I shuffled through my folder before finding it and handing it to him. He read it quickly (habit for a writer), his expression getting worse and worse with every word. He finally set it down and raised his eyebrows at me.

"You got a bad review," he said.

"No," I said, snatching up the paper. "See here? _Although some of her writing is hurried, she makes mistakes and doesn't always clean up well, Ms. Crane is an all-around good writer. _Good."

"Yes but you make mistakes?"

"Who doesn't?"

"Don't clean up well?"

"I need practice, that's all," I said, clenching my teeth together. "I am prepared to work harder."

"Uh huh," he said, picking up his coffee and taking a measly sip from it. "Sorry, but, you aren't right for this company Miss Crane. I'm gonna have to ask you to exit through the door, over there." I could feel my cheeks burning in anger as I stood up and pushed my chair away.

"Thank you for your time," I managed to spit out. I turned on my heel and threw the door open, marching out. I was infuriated. His ad said he was desperate! I would be prime! I could be the best writer he had if he would give me a chance. I made my way towards the doors, arms crossed and a stolid expression on my face.

"Psst." I froze on the spot, holding my files tighter to my chest. I looked inside the cubicle the sound had come from and saw a short man in a checkered tie and ironed black pants. He gestured to me. I thought it over. There were people to call for help if he was being a moron, right? And he was short enough for me to fit my hands around his scrawny neck. I walked in.

"What?" I hissed. He handed me a slip of paper.

"For a job," he said, "Go to that address. He'll help you out. Don't tell my boss I gave you this though." He winked.

"Right," I said without thinking. "Um, thanks." I didn't look at the note until I had made my way down the escalators and into the street. I ducked inside a coffee shop and ordered a latte before opening it and reading:

_221B Baker Street  
Ask for Sherlock Holmes_

I rubbed my eyes in frustration. Was this a scam? I had been by Baker Street a few times. They were just flats. No businesses really, except there was a little shopping mart. After that was just Downtown London. I sipped my coffee and stared at it, a little puzzled. Who was Sherlock Holmes? What kind of name was that? Maybe it was a fake name. Maybe he was a drug dealer! I shivered at the thought. I remembered a boy in my high school who did drugs and spent five years in jail because all of the dealings he did. I didn't want that to happen to me. Mum had given me a long talk after the trial of the boy and she made me swear I would never touch the stuff. I agreed heartily. My mind was wandering, so I left the coffee shop and made my way to the gym.

_Bam. Bam. Bam. _I hit the punching bag a little too hard and my hand stung like hell.

"Damn…" I mumbled, rubbing it. I sat down on the mats, pushing the bag back and forth with my free hand. I fished my water bottle out of my bag and took a long drink as the piece of paper slipped out of my hand. I had been holding it since I had received it. To go or not to go, that was the question. I sighed and opened it again. The words were smudged by my sweat but I could still make out the name. _Sherlock Holmes. _Then I decided. Why not?

After I changed into normal clothes, I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address. I looked out the window on the ride, watching the tourists. It was freezing but they still were out, buying useless key chains and t-shirts. I sighed and glanced at the paper one more time before the cab stopped. I paid and walked up to the door. I took a deep breath.

And hit the buzzer.


	2. Chapter 2

The door clicked open to reveal a shortish man with light blonde hair and wearing a striped jumper. He was sort of cute, the kind that girls would like. Maybe men too. I shook this from my head and handed him the paper.

"Um, I'm Viona Crane," I said nervously, "Someone told me to come here for a job. Are you Mr. Holmes?" The man shook his head.

"John Watson," he said, sticking out his hand. "Call me John, please." I shook it and he stood by to let me in. There was a little hallway and a set of stairs going up to an open door. A beautiful song was emitting from what sounded like a violin.

"He's up here," said John, stepping in front of me and climbing the stairs. I followed him, a bit confused, my files still held to my shirt. The violin stopped and I heard it being set down somewhere then a groan of annoyance. John pushed the door open fully and we stepped in. My first impression of the place was messy. It was small, filled with clutter everywhere. But my eyes traveled quickly to the tall man by a window. He was very attractive, with curly black hair and the brightest blue eyes I had ever seen. He was wearing a gray t-shirt and pajama pants, a blue robe thrown over it messily. His skin was pale, but it looked good on him. He had a frustrated expression on his face and was sitting in a chair with his knees up to his chest. I tried to keep my eyes away from his, but it was so damn hard.

"Sherlock?" said John, "This is Viona Crane." Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something then shut it. Then he opened it again.

"Crane is French for skull," he said. I swear to god I could have just fainted. I wasn't usually the flirt type, but his goddamn voice! It was deep but moved with such a grace, I wished I could smash it into a story and keep it there to be able to swoon readers.

"Yeah," I said, casually even though I was ready to run out now. He simply gestured to his fireplace mantle where a single human skull sat, a thin layer of dust covering it.

"Oh," I said, walking over to it. "Who's was this?"

"Friend of mine," he answered. I heard John sigh and smiled a little.

"I like skulls," I said, touching it, the dust catching my finger.

"Ms. Crane is here for a job Sherlock," said John, setting one of the dining table chairs in the living room. I walked over and sat down in it, shuffling the papers in my folder.

"What kind of work do you offer?" I said, keeping my eyes off Sherlock and on John.

"Writing," said John, sitting down in a chair across from Sherlock. "We need you to help us with publishing."

"Publishing what?"

"Anything, everything," he said, "We need someone on the press, on our side."

"Okay…" I said.

"You've been to the newspaper office," said Sherlock, cutting into the conversation. "They didn't hire you."

"How do you know that?" I snapped, crossing my arms.

"You smell like ink," he said, "And plastic. Fake plants in the office? I thought so. He turned you down, you got angry. Your cheeks, still a little red from working out, punching bags? Relieves stress I'm guessing."

"Excuse me?!" I cried, "Are you trying to be clever? How the hell do you know where I've been?" He may have been attractive but he was bloody annoying. "You set a stalker on my tail?"

"No, nothing like that," he answered, looking a little pleased at my reaction. "I just observe." John looked exasperated, sitting down in his chair with a "humph."

"It's my job," he said, "Consulting Detective. Only one in the world. When the police are at their depths, they call me."

"How'd you know it was punching bags?"

"Your knuckles are bruised," he said quickly. I stared at him, open mouthed.

"That's kind of amazing, isn't it? You knew exactly…but did that short man from the press tell you?"

"Who?"

"He gave me your address."

"Don't know him." I looked at John and he shook his head in confirmation. Brilliant!

"That's a gift," I said, pointing at Sherlock. "God, what I could write with that kind of insight."

"But you can," said Sherlock, "Write for us. Get the press to notice you. I believe John has an idea in mind called "The Deduction Gang" or something, put in the paper so people can know what's going on in the criminal world rather than just his blog."

"Okay," I said, whipping out my pen. "When do I start?"

They set me up in the flat, in a room in the basement. Their landlady Mrs. Hudson (a short kind woman) gave me a bed, a couch and a good sized dresser. I thanked her a million times, finally moving out of my brother's place. I figured if this job worked out, I had a good place to stay, plus cash in my pocket. I moved over my small amount of clothes and books to the flat and then went to talk to John about more of the details of the job.

I could not believe how much had changed in just three hours.


	3. Chapter 3

I was awoken the next day by a horrible shrieking noise coming from up the stairs, traveling through the thin floorboards. I stumbled out of bed, cursing whoever was making the wretched sound and throwing my robe around my pajamas, I climbed up the stairs away from the moldy room and into the living area. Sherlock was standing by the window, his back to a man I had never seen before, his hands playing his violin in a horrible fashion.

"Do you mind?" I snapped, tying on my robe a little tighter. The unknown man turned to me and stuck out his hand.

"You must be Ms. Crane," he said, "I'm Mycroft, Sherlock's brother." He had a bit of a regal air to him, his suit clean and ironed, his hair perfectly combed across his head. John came in carrying three plates of frozen waffles, Mrs. Hudson following him with syrup and butter.

"Thanks," I said.

"How'd you sleep dear?" asked Mrs. Hudson, rubbing her hands nervously.

"Fantastic, thanks," I said, sitting down at the table. "So, um, Mycroft? Here for a visit then?"

"Oh no," he answered, glaring at his brother. "I came to speak to my brother about a case." John sat down and shook his head as if to say _back off. _

"A criminal case?" I asked, poking my fork into my waffle. "Like someone's died?" Sherlock set down his violin and snickered.

"Yes, someone has died," said Mycroft, "My brother, as it turns out in these sorts of events, is the only man for the job. Well, you must know, he probably _inspected _you the other day."

"Yeah," I said, taking a bite of my food. "He knew I'd been to the gym and other things." My cheeks turned a little red and I looked down at my lap.

"Ah," said Mycroft, "John, would you please persuade him? Could be a great case for your new writer." I perked up at the word _writer _and faced John expectantly.

"Of course," he said, standing and shaking Mycroft's hand. "I'll be by when he's less grumpy, yeah?"

"Till then," said Mycroft, "Nice meeting you Ms. Crane. Goodbye Sherlock." Sherlock merely picked up his violin again and played his brother out the door. I had to stifle a laugh.

"They hate each other," I said, more of a statement than a question.

"Oh yeah," said John, taking another bite of his waffle. "Probably since birth. Started fighting about uses of tobacco in the crib." I laughed and Sherlock glared at us.

"Mycroft's too watchful," he said, "Since when does he worry about me so much?"

"Since three months ago," said John, waving a fork at him. I saw Sherlock's eyes drain of color for a moment as he remembered something.

"Um, what was three months ago?" I asked awkwardly.

"You don't know?" John looked puzzled.

"I was in Australia," I said, "Studying some stuff. Why? What was so important?" John cleared his throat and dove into what seemed to be a very long story…

When he was done, I was stunned.

"So Sherlock…?"

"Committed suicide," said John, "Fake suicide."

"Oh my god," I scribbled down some more in my notebook, to which John and Sherlock had no objection to. "That was so thoughtful and arrogant."

"I did it to protect John," he said snappishly, flopping down into his chair. A phone dinged and I realized it was mine. I opened it up and found a text from an unknown number:

Has John talked to you about the case?  
-MH

Mycroft? How did he have my number?

"He's the government," said Sherlock, coming up behind me suddenly. "He can get any number he wants.

"He's the government?"

"More or less."

"Okay…so are you going to do that case?" Sherlock gave a shrug.

"What was it again John?" he asked, crossing his arms.

"Uh, murder at Buckingham Palace," answered John, "No footprints, no fingerprints, good pay though."

"Good pay?" I said.

"You'll get a third of the pay," he said, "Um, Sherlock and I get the other two thirds."

"No, you do," said Sherlock, "I told you, I don't do it for the money."

"Just this once, please?" begged John, "It'd be really helpful. The head maid was murdered. They fear for the queen and royal family if they don't find the killer." Sherlock gave a big sigh.

"Alright," he said, "The game is on."


	4. Chapter 4

My OC in this story is named Viona Crane and this is what she is like:

Red flaming hair with big waves in it. She is a good sized woman, with curves and sharp cheekbones. She is sassy and doesn't like to be messed with. She likes to get solid truth for her writing, but daydreams about things that could never happen or other impossible ideas. She has been poor for most of her life, her mother a stripper and her father a random player that vanished when her mother told him she was pregnant. Viona was left at an orphanage for three months while her mum found work. When her mother did return, she was horribly sick and died a week later when they were moved in with Viona's brother (born right after Viona, with her red hair and lots of freckles). Her brother had been staying with a foster family until his mum found work and they all moved together.

After her mum died, Viona and her brother (Jace) moved from orphanage to orphanage, not having much time to make friends or get a good education. Finally, Viona got a good foster family with no kids but she was separated from Jace for her full highschool and college years. When she graduated with a degree in Creative Writing, she moved in with Jace and got a job at a tiny diner. And she lived there ever since.

Until now…


	5. Chapter 4 (2)

So that was it. I was sitting in a cab, driving to bloody Buckingham Palace. I could not believe it. Sherlock and John acted like it was a walk to the park which raised the question if they had been there before.

"Yeah," said John, smirking. "Sherlock wore nothing but a sheet, insulted one of Mycroft's friends and stole an ashtray. Great visit. Didn't meet the queen though."

"Are we today?"

"Maybe." He simply stared out the window at the ginormous palace, looking quite calm about the whole situation. Made me want to smack him. Finally, the cab parked in front of the doors and I saw Mycroft waiting for us by some rosebushes. I stepped out, readying my pencil and small notebook. I had tied my hair back in a braided bun, thrown on a nice dress and a jacket, and put on my best shoes. Sherlock had done nothing to change his normal outfit, but damn, normal was sexy for him. Too bad he was annoying as hell, going on about how Mycroft didn't really like his "gift" and shit like that. John was wearing his normal jumper and coat, his hair combed to the side a little. Mycroft met us at the door, looking smug at Sherlock.

"The queen is ready to see you," was all he said before leading us inside. I gave a squeak of excitement and scribbled down: _About to meet the queen. _We went inside and I couldn't help but let out a gasp. Of course it was elegant, with marble floors, huge pillars, and many staircases with gold colored banisters, but I hadn't expected so many rich looking things.

"It's beautiful," I mumbled, scribbling down everything I saw.

"The queen will be proud to hear you say something like that," commented Mycroft. I beamed. Maybe this could work out for longer than I thought it could. We walked up a huge staircase, me sticking my head over the side to look down at a few fancy looking butlers.

"Don't gape," said Sherlock snappishly. I rolled my eyes. One day I had known him and he already treated me like his bloody sister. Except for the fact that his eyes ran up and down my body when I changed out of my pajamas and put my day clothes on.

It didn't take long for us to get upstairs and into a gorgeous parlor, complete with huge windows (sadly there was no natural light but dark clouds instead), cozy chairs and poufs, and a big hearth with a roaring fire inside it. I held back my excitement as I sat down and noted down what the room looked like and that Mycroft took us there. He stuck around though, watching his brother closely. We waited in silence for a few minutes, me tapping my pen against my thigh anxiously. John gave me a warm smile just as the doors opened and the Queen of England stepped through them.

She was very elegant, just as much as her home, with a more casual blue dress and sweater, her curly white hair missing her usual crown. But she looked old and wise, standing there with a smile stretching her wrinkles across her face. We all stood but she waved us down, taking the seat closest to the fireplace.

"Thank you for coming," she said as her two security men took their places behind her. "There has been, as you have probably been informed, a death in the palace. My head maid, the one I pay the most, was killed last night at two-thirty AM. Or at least that's when one of the cook's found her."

"How was she killed?" asked John. I wrote frantically, trying to catch almost every word.

"We have no idea," said the queen, "Her heartbeat was completely gone, but there were no fingerprints. Eyes open, hands out-"

"May we see the body?" asked Sherlock, standing up. The queen nodded and her guards led the group out, her in front. We walked down a long hallway, getting smaller and smaller quickly. Finally, we reached the maid's quarters, a dark hallway with little lamps lining the wooden walls. The queen opened the door to a good-sized room. On the ground lay a girl, brown hair splayed out on the dusty floor, eyes pointed up at the ceiling. I almost lost my breakfast. I stumbled back and John helped me out of the room.

"Th-that," I spit out, "She's dead, really dead. Oh poor thing…" I rubbed my eyes a few times, just to keep myself sane. "Sorry…"

"No, it happens, really," said John, "Just relax, act like it's just a big story and you're a big reporter." I gave a little nod and pulled out my phone, managing to get a picture of Sherlock examining the maid.

"No trace of anything," he said as I leaned down beside him, stomach still churning. "Not even unidentified dust. Who could kill her like this?"

"Spider-man?" I joked. He didn't smile or even acknowledge it as he whipped out his microscope and ran it up and down the maid's arms.

"I'll need time at the hospital for a while," he said, "John, call Molly." John nodded and stepped out of the room.

"Your highness," said Sherlock, giving a little bow. "I'll be back in five hours with results. Thank you for your time." The queen gave a curious nod, watching the detective leave, me trailing behind him.

"Who's Molly?" I asked once we'd made our way outside, Mycroft staring at us from the window.

"Friend," said Sherlock simply.

"He works with her," explained John, "When he needs help at the hospital."

"There's a lab there?"

"Yes." We got out into the normal street and hailed a cab, heading to some unknown hospital I had never been to. When the car stopped, I was still confused about this "Molly" and possibly a little…jealous? I pushed the thought from my mind. Besides, who fancied Sherlock?

I blushed. Me.

We got to the hospital quickly, the cab driver letting us out impatiently. Sherlock walked in first, throwing open the doors and heading into the elevator, me behind him. John clicked Floor 9 and we shot up, opening at a brightly lit hallway. Sherlock led us into a big room, with lab toys galore and a woman standing by the microscope.

"Hi," she said, "Molly." She stuck out her hand and I shook it, surveying her face. Brown hair, pink cheeks. Ugh, she was wearing makeup. Trying to make an impression? I simply nodded and told her my name, turning towards the counter. I picked up a random red bouncy ball and drummed it against the counter, listening to Molly and Sherlock.

"Need these?" she asked.

"Yes, and could you get me the tweezers from the other side of the room?"

"Yup." They sounded friendly and almost sweet. Made me want to gag. I clenched my bouncy ball tighter.

"Jealous much?" said John softly. My mouth dropped open and I turned to retort, but he was walking away, chuckling under his breath. I mumbled something about the bathroom, and cheeks burning, left the lab.


	6. Chapter 5

I walked down the hall to the loo, pushing open the door, almost hitting a crying woman.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," I said, pulling the door open fully. She looked at me with an angry stare and I backed off, stepping over to the sinks. I rubbed my eyes, washing off the mascara that was running a little. I tried to fix my hair but to no avail, finally giving up and letting it down into messy waves. I gave a little sigh, looking into the mirror. Then I noticed something behind me. A small piece of paper, attached to one of the stall doors. Out of order? Maybe. I turned and ripped it off, flipping it open to read:

_Viona Crane: Stay completely still. _

I thought about moving, but the paper shook and the words vanished, new ones appearing:

_I know you want to move. Don't. _

I could feel my hands shaking, telling me I was nervous. I stood as still as I could, my eyes darting to the stall and the exit. Then the paper shook again.

_Good job. Please wait while we gain you access. _

The stall door suddenly cracked in half and slid apart, revealing a dark tunnel. The paper shook.

_Walk forward Ms. Crane. _

"No," I said, my voice trembling.

_Please?_

I took one careful step. Then another. Each one echoed across the tunnel. I kept moving, faster and faster into the darkness, until I was running, for it felt like it when on forever, me just trying to figure out who was doing this. Then I fell. I tripped over something and fell faster and faster, trying to grip onto a wall, anything. Splash. I hit some water, my body smacking against it. I stood up, finding it only a few feet deep, just to my waist. Then some lights clicked on and I squinted to make out anything.

"Hello?" I managed to say, even though I was breathing hard from my run.

"Sorry for the theatrics," said a voice. I heard footsteps resonating off what I guess to be another tunnel, then a splash as if their feet had hit the water. "My elevator is broken so…" It was a man, that was for sure.

"Show your face," I said in a demanding tone.

"Anything for a lady," he said. He stepped out of the shadows. He was average height, my size, with thick brown hair, almost covering one of his eyes. He was wearing a brown suit and holding a key in his hand.

"Who are you?" I asked, not daring to move under his gaze.

"I'm the doctor."


	7. Chapter 6

"Doctor who?" I took a careful step forward, splashing into the water.

"Just the doctor," he answered, smiling.

"No, what's your real name?" I snapped, crossing my arms. He didn't seem very threatening. "And why did I have to stop moving and then go down a dark tunnel? Why did that note change words? And _why _are you wearing a bowtie?!"

"One questions at a time," he answered, "My name is just the Doctor. You had to stop moving so I could get the tunnel ready. Didn't want you leaving. The tunnel was because my elevator was broken. The note is special that's why. And bowties are cool." I stared at him, mouth open.

"Why am I here?"

"I need you."

"Not a good enough reason."

"It will be."

"What kind of Doctor are you?"

"A special kind."

"Is that why you have 'special' paper?"

"Sassy."

"Shut up." I stood, staring him down but he wouldn't bring his eyes. "Why do you need me?"

"You're a friend of Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah, so?"

"He's really smart," said the Doctor, "I mean, _really _smart. Someone that smart can't be human- no offense- so I'm here to find out what he is."

"You mean like an alien?"

"Exactly!"

"Yeah right."

"No it's true. I'm the Doctor, I can travel anywhere in space and time. I have met people and aliens you would never even dream of meeting."

"Prove it."

"Come with me," he held out his hand. "Run." I weighed my options. Most likely this guy was up to no good, making a horrible trick to hurt me. But my curiosity took over, so I picked up a sharp rock off a ledge on the rocky wall (just in case) and splashed over to him, taking his hand.

"Where do we have to go?"

"Just back here," he answered as they waded through the water over into the darkened area. Suddenly, the Doctor rapped something hard with his fist and I heard the sound of a key clicking in. Then, something lit up. It was a Police Box, from the older times, blue and bright.

"Bloody hell," I said, "I thought it was something scary."

"It is," said the Doctor, leading me inside.

"We won't both fit," I said, trying to step back. But as soon as the inside lit up, I saw.

"It's bigger on the inside," I whispered. And bigger it was. Huge, with high ceilings and beams, all pointed towards a circler table in the middle, covered with controls and buttons. There was a stairwell leading up to god knows where, another set of stairs going underneath the floor, and a smell of bacon everywhere.

"Oh my god," I said, "Oh my god, oh my god, .god!" I ran back out, running around the box a couple times.

"It IS bigger on the inside!" I cried, running back inside. "Alright Mr. Smarty Pants, prove there's aliens!" I was shaking like mad, trying to figure out what was going on here. Suddenly, the Doctor sprang into action, tapping buttons and pulling levers, checking temperatures, and turning knobs.

"Where are we going?!" I cried, as an odd noise filled the box.

"To ten-thirty this morning!" he cried.

"What?!" But neither of us said anything more, because the box shook and lurched, throwing me against the bars on the side of the top platform. The sound filled the room, like a siren but less high pitched, making me want to run out in fear. Finally, it stopped shaking and the Doctor looked at me with a smile.

"Go ahead," he said, gesturing to the door. "Just be careful." He stayed close behind me as I walked to the door and opened it.

"This is Sherlock's bedroom," I whispered, even though I didn't know why I felt the need to be quiet.

"Yes," said the Doctor, "Go on, peek round the corner." I stepped across the carpet carefully, turning my head to look out into the living room. I felt like I could faint. There was Mycroft, talking to…me! Me in my robe and pajamas, blushing at the three men in the room. Sherlock was holding his violin, John was watching Mycroft…

"Oh my god," I hissed, turning and grabbing the Doctor's arm. "You can travel in time! Holy shit!" I gave a little giggle of excitement but he clapped his hand over my mouth. I pushed it away, running into the blue box.

"What's this thing called?"

"It's a TARDIS," he said, "Only one left in the world. Stands for Time And Relative Dimensions in Space."

"Bloody hell, show me an alien already!" I cried.

"Well there's one in Sherlock's room," he answered. I ran back into the room, glancing around for a big creature or something. The Doctor laughed and pointed to a small bug in the corner of the room.

"That's a cricket," I said, crossing my arms, but going over to it anyway.

"No, it's a Creedin," he said, "They can poison any room, fill it with toxic gas in the length of only twenty four hours." He whipped out a long metal object and scanned it with a blue light on the end.

"What's that?" I asked, pointing at it.

"Sonic Screwdriver," he answered casually.

"What's it do?"

"Everything."

"Liar."

"Rule one, the Doctor always lies. Anyway, looks like this one's been here about ten hours…yeah, Sherlock will be dead by tomorrow morning. Obviously, someone does not have a likeness for the consulting detective."

"Can't you take care of it?" I asked, fear crossing my face.

"Of course," he said.

"Are you saying that to make me feel better?"

"Nope."

"But the Doctor always lies."

"You're smart, but I wouldn't lie about that." I shrugged and decided to trust him. He scanned the bug a few more times before promptly smashing it with his finger.

"That's it?"

"That's it," he said, "However, if you had smashed it, you'd be dead."

"You're human, aren't you?"

"A human who travels around in a big blue box through time and space? Nah, can't see that happening. I'm an alien too actually. Two hearts." He tapped his chest, grinning. "Plus I have a death trick."

"Death trick?" I asked interestedly, "Like what?"

"I can cheat death," he said, "Regenerate."

"Re-what?"

"I can die, but change into a completely different form, healthy again."

"Lucky you," I said, not believing a word. "You can travel in space and time, but how do I know that alien isn't just a cricket you put there to impress me?"

"Because," he said, showing his thumb where it was smashed onto. "Watch." The cricket suddenly shivered and purple smoke rose up from its smashed head, puffing the Doctor in the face. I sniffed it. Bacon.

"Your TARDIS smells like bacon too," I said.

"Oh?" he answered, "That can't be good…" He threw down the bug and rushed into the TARDIS, me right behind him. He gave a cry of anger and I ran in to see what it was. Millions of cricket things were covering his walls, all clicking like little teeth.

"What can we do?!" I cried, gripping onto one of the railings in fear.

"Smash them all," he said, running to the middle of the TARDIS and jabbing a few buttons. Suddenly fog filled the room, coating everything.

"What is that?!" I cried, backing away from it.

"Toxic gas, it'll kill them!" he cried, "Just get out!" I ran for the door, but it was locked shut, sealed by some sort of purple mush…the cricket's smoke.

"It's locked!" I yelled, turning around to face the oncoming toxics. The Doctor tried to push the door open but to no avail.

"They knew I would release the gas so they locked the doors," he said quickly, "Faster death, even if it means their own suicide."

"So we're going to die?"

"You are." My heart gave a horrible lurch.

"Doctor?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I believe in aliens now." He gave me a sad smile and tried to block out the toxic by covering me with his body. I squeezed my eyes shut and gave a small whimper of fear. Suddenly, the door burst open and we tumbled out. I didn't know where I was going, as there was only darkness, but I crawled away from the TARDIS, the Doctor's hand in mine. Then I opened my eyes. I was back in the bathroom of the hospital, lying on the ground. The TARDIS was in place of a stall, the Doctor washing his hands in a sink.

"Bloody good machine she is," he said, rapping his blue box with his knuckles. I stood up on shaky legs, rubbing my eyes.

"We're alive?"

"Yup," he said, drying his hands on a paper towel. "Back at the same time you left with me on the TARDIS."

"How did we live?" I asked suspiciously.

"TARDIS," he said, "She fixed her own door, letting us out and then closed it, killing the vermin. Should be able to go back in, maybe in a few hours or so?"

"Oh." He handed me a bar of soap.

"You should wash up," he said, "It's time to meet Sherlock for dinner."

"What?"

"I left him a text while you were unconscious," he explained, "Back in the lab. Saying you needed some air but would meet him and John at a restaurant to eat."

"Great," I groaned, looking at my reflection in the mirror. My hair was tangled and a mess, my makeup all over my face. I sighed and picked up a wet paper towel. Wash up time indeed. 


End file.
